


Laughing All The Way

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Legend (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Homophobic Language, Insanity, M/M, Masturbation, Murder, Obsession, Rough Sex, Violence, Voyeurism, the underage warning isn't between main characters but it warrants being tagged anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:12:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6234616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward Smith was insane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Edward Smith was insane.

That, more than anything else, was true. Reggie had seen things, done things, that were violent and wrong and drenched in moral apathy. He was a brute. He was a gangster. He was a killer- but dear Teddy was something else altogether.

Reggie knew Ronnie was crazy, in the medical and psychological sense, in the way that required bottles of rattling pills and blackmailed psychiatrists. Had been that way since they were kids. Slurred speech, torn knuckles, hissing dog breaths as he stood above some dying kid on the cobbles of the _real_ London. Ronnie was crazy, but he and Reggie, they were the same, schizophrenia aside- they were brutes. They were simple, unrefined, and violent. God knew Reggie felt the disease in his blood some days. It was in him too- thank god Frances had run from him, because she’d have died, either by his hand or her own.

Teddy Smith wasn’t a brute.

He was a child, with big blue eyes and a wide smile. He was a young man with a round ass and tight pants, a faggot with no shame and no misgivings about who he was- but he wasn’t a pansy. He wore a suit, and wore it well, stained it red, crouched above men and women and whoever Ronnie pointed him towards, grinning maniacally, _laughing-_ and that was the thing that really chilled Reggie. His fucking _laugh._ Even for Reggie, King of the East End, Teddy’s laugh was the most disturbed thing he had ever heard. It was that laugh that assured everyone that Teddy belonged in padded rooms, tied up with a straightjacket, rolling around in his own shit, _laughing._

Teddy’s parents had disappeared. The story said he’d been orphaned, poor little blue-eyed blonde boy with no future and no prospects, no home, no clothes aside from the ones he wore. He’d been taken in by gangs and violence, had known the underside of a man’s hand at an age too young, been pressed against a table, been held up against a wall, moaned into plaster and wood with lips that weren’t yet sixteen.

Reggie had never pardoned the harming of children. Which was why Teddy’s story had shaken him, in a way he’d always hidden- but the _real_ story was far worse.

An eleven year old boy cuts his parents up with a knife. Takes the blade to himself, hides under a bed, and starts screaming. The neighbours come. He gets sent to foster homes, where marriages are torn apart as husbands discover his young, white body, in the bed they usually share with their wives. He is transferred. He is moved, time and time again, and no one ever blames him, even when he gets stronger, and their screams are muffled in the dead of night as he does the rest the way he did his parents. But better. No clumsy hands, no unsure fingers. The knife becomes sure. Certain. Hard. Slicing. All the while he laughs, and _laughs,_ because it’s just so fucking _funny._

Ronnie knew the story before Reggie did.

But, even before Ronnie told the story in an awe-filled medicated drawl, Reggie had known. He’d looked into those shining eyes, seen the edge in that gaze, and felt a sudden, irrational impulse to lift his gun and empty the clip into his forehead.  This was a _thing._ This was a _monster_ wearing a boy’s skin, a fucking _demon_.

 _What the fuck,_ he’d thought, _what the fuck is this fucking kid._

The one time he saw Ronnie and Teddy fucking- which was unavoidable, because he and Ronnie were born together and spent most of their time living together too- it was sickening.

Ronnie was doing him from behind, like a dog in heat, as expected. Teddy was gasping, head thrown back, mouth open wide, lips wet and shining, eyes closed. Ronnie’s big hand was in his hair, pulling, and the _sounds_ Teddy made. It was the fucking filthiest thing Reggie had ever heard, and he wanted this little demon all to himself- he wanted to turn him over, see his face as he took him apart, wanted to rip off the skin and find the psychopathic thing underneath, see his face, see him cry, see him smile, see him _laugh_ like he wanted to kill everything that moved, see his eyebrows draw together in desperation, his hips arch off the bed, his fingers grasp at a pillow, his _need,_ his fucking _desperation_ -

Reggie had run from the room, but not before Teddy had looked him in the eye, moaning loudly, gasping-

Reggie Kray, _running away._

He’d never fucking live it down.

He went home, undid his belt, jerked himself off so hard he saw fucking stars when he came. He slumped against the front door, and punched the wood so hard he broke bone.

The next day, he looked at Teddy, saw him smile, and thought, _this fucker knows what he fucking does to me._

As yet, he hadn’t made a move. Because Teddy Smith, dear Mad Teddy, his brother’s pretty little boy, was insane. He was insane, and Reggie Kray was afraid of him.

Jesus Christ, he was afraid.

And he wanted him so badly.


	2. Chapter 2

Reggie considered Esmerelda’s Bar to be a success of his own making, aided by his brother’s brute-force tactics and the quiet, simmering threat that he exuded whenever he lingered behind Reggie’s shoulder. But it wasn’t all menace and gang violence. No, it was sweet talking and diplomacy, cleverness and compromise. Reggie knew that their bar was founded on blood money and violence, but fuck it, diamonds washed clean too fucking well for him to care. This was the dream of every middle-class chump on a shitty wage. They were successes.  _Rockstars_. Surrounded by elegant women draped in furs and lace, wealthy men in tuxedos, socialites with fingers adorned by clusters of jewellery… They had it all. And they had worked for every single penny. Him and Ronnie, they were the perfect match, born to take over the world with qualities that perfectly complimented one another.

Reggie loved being in control. He  _deserved_ to be in control. And he had been, once.

In the beginning.

Then Ronnie had gone to one of those gay parties and brought  _him_ back on his arm. Paraded him right into Esmerelda’s Bar like a prize, like he knew exactly how much the little incubus would mean to Reggie. If there had been a pivotal moment in their lives, a scene onto which they would one day reflect, recognising its significance, that night in Esmerelda's Bar would have been it. It was like fate. Almost fucking  _Shakespearean_ in nature.

Maybe they'd been destined to meet all along, the three of them.

 

 

Reggie had been mingling, socialising, dropping all the names necessary and posing for photos like the boxer he’d once wanted to become. He’d spied his brother from across the room and headed for him, eager to check what Ronnie’s mental state was. One could never be too careful. Ronnie wasn’t fond of taking his pills.

The first thing he noticed was that Ronnie’s arm was linked through another man’s. The gentleman was shorter than him, with a slender frame but broad shoulders, body fitted into an exquisite bespoke suit that was deep lilac in colour. His hair was combed back elegantly, the edge of his jaw strong and striking, but he stood like a gangster. Feet apart. Hips slanted forward. He stood like he was ready for a fight. Then he tipped his head back and laughed; a manic, delighted sound that stunned Reggie almost into faltering. For a moment, beneath the music and the drink, a pulse of feeling moved throughout the air.

Reggie felt a need to see this man's face. To greet him.

So he walked up to his brother, slapping a friendly hand onto his shoulder. Ronnie barely reacted, glancing over his shoulder with a flat expression. His face grew more lively when he realised there would be no need to thump a stranger for abruptly touching him.

“Reggie! Reggie, good, good, I’ve been meanin’ to- Well, been meanin’ to find ya haven’ I, haven’ I. C’mere, this is my new friend. New, good friend of mine. Say hello.”

He shuffled in that odd, almost childlike way he sometimes did, turning his friend (Reggie knew exactly what that meant) around by the shoulders.

Reggie’s mind went utterly blank.

He wasn’t looking at a man, he was looking at a boy _._ A boy of peculiar, rough attractiveness, the curl of hair that dipped down onto his forehead not doing much to tame the frenzied look in his icy eyes. A smile touched at his lips, twitching there like he was ready to burst into laughter again, and Reggie couldn’t read him. Not even a little bit. This kid wasn’t like the other lads Ronnie had dragged along to Esmerelda’s Bar. The suit, the hair, the meticulously shined shoes– it all seemed to be hiding something violent and raw, something that itched at his skin to break free. He pressed his tongue between his lips, tilting his head curiously, gaze moving up and down Reggie's body with deliberate– and unmistakeable– intent.

He was beautiful.

“Go on now, go on Teddy, introduce yourself, god almighty you’ll be ‘ere until the sun goes down, eh?”

The boy didn’t flinch when Ronnie shook him eagerly, grinning wider. Usually it was at this point that the other lads had wavered, made uneasy by Ronnie’s heavy-handedness and utter disregard for personal space, the promise of some good cash not quite so appealing in the face of a suitor that was obviously unhinged. But Teddy leaned into Ronnie’s body effortlessly, holding out a hand to Reggie as Ronnie lovingly smoothed down the lines of those deep purple lapels. It was like watching a cat grooming its fucking offspring. Reggie had never witnessed his brother this besotted. And he'd never met another human being who was  _on Ronnie's fucking level._

“Edward Smith,” the boy declared, somehow managing to make his name sound like a dare _,_ “but you can call me Teddy, darling.”

Reggie shook his hand, only just managing to keep calm. Teddy's skin was smooth. Youthful. But his knuckles were rough and spoke of violence, and all Reggie could do was imagine this magnificent creature in the throes of a fight, face wild and energetic with the thrill.

_Shit._

Just moments ago, Reggie had been charming and impressing entire crowds. A public speaker, that's what he was. Natural-born and all. Then he’d crossed the dancefloor, come over here to greet his brother, and now his chest was tight. His throat fluttered with a fast, frenzied pulse, and he couldn’t force his lips to part with a greeting. The sound of the bar was blurry. Cacophonous. Too fucking loud. He missed his social cue and stood there in silence, dumbfounded. He didn't know what to say. Since fucking  _when_ did he not know what to say?

Thankfully, Ronnie had always talked enough for both of them.

“Met ‘im at one of those gatherings, I did– Y’know Reggie, it really is amazin’ to consider the level of companionship one can find in the most unexpected places. Wasn’t lookin’ for companionship, was I? Just a bit o’ fun, like normal, eh. But you are somethin’ else, Teddy. Ain’t he somethin’ else, Reggie?”

Reggie nodded tensely, forcing a smile onto his face. He knew the expression didn’t touch his eyes. “Sure.”

Ronnie kept talking. But Reggie had eyes only for this boy, this stranger who had so quickly derailed his entire fucking evening. The boy watched him back, face warmed by the bar’s overhead lighting- and whatever game they were playing, Reggie  _knew,_ right then and there, that he would lose. The boy licked at his champagne-damp lips, lifting a glass to his mouth so that he could take a slow, deliberate sip. His throat was long and elegant, and Reggie wanted to bite it. He wanted to hold him down. Fuck him. Kiss him.  _Taste_ him. He wanted the young, slender body before him to answer with touches and warm breaths, bending how and when he liked. He imagined grabbing the boy by a shoulder, dragging him over to one of the poker tables. Shoving the cards aside, throwing him down in front of the whole goddamn party. Taking him then and there, like some common whore. How he’d gasp. How he’d moan. How he’d catch soft kisses between the hard, staccato jutting of their naked bodies, suits torn off and thrown aside, open mouths messily slotted together, gasping,  _gasping-_   

Teddy held his gaze. Reggie did truly think he was being subtle, but then the boy smiled, eyelids dipping low in an expression of pure power. His blue eyes flashed with amusement.

“Bring it on,” he whispered.

Reggie blinked. Ronnie, who had been midway through a rambling analysis of the gay community in London’s elite circles, stopped speaking, confused by Teddy’s seemingly random statement.

“Well now, what was that, what’d you say there, Teddy?”

“Oh, nothing,” Teddy replied airily, holding up his glass, “this champagne is shit, Ronnie. Shall we get a new bottle? We could have it in your room, you and me.”

Ronnie paused for only a moment, then swept the boy close to his body with a booming laugh, arm around his shoulders. Teddy giggled, the champagne teetering in his palm as he leaned in to press an eager kiss against Ronnie's cheek. Reggie’s ears were pounding with the pressure of his heartbeat. This kid was a fucking… hypnotist. Since when did Ronnie fucking Kray let people mess him around like this? And if the hardest, most insane killer of the East End didn’t stand a chance against this lad, who the  _fuck_ did?

“This one, I tell ya Reggie,” Ronnie leaned forward like he was sharing a secret, “he’s a  _keeper.”_

Reggie nodded. He felt sick. “Sure seems that way, Ron.”

Ronnie belted out another laugh. Then he turned away, taking his boy with him. Reggie stood where he was, unable to move, body brimming with heat and fury as he reflected on, in no unsure terms, what those two were about to do in Ronnie’s bed. It was only when they were gone, swallowed by the crowd, that Reggie realised why his stomach was so twisted, why a tightness had begun to tug at the hollow of his throat. This was Esmerelda’s Bar. This was  _his_ fucking turf. His property. His  _legacy._

But he wasn’t in control.

Not anymore.

 

 


End file.
